


The Mark of Cain's Interrogation Tactics

by KittyHarvelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Cain - Freeform, Dark!Dean, Dubious Consent, Dungeon, Episode: s09e22 Stairway to Heaven, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, I wrote this BEFORE 9.22 aired, Interrogation, Loss of Control, MOC - Freeform, Mark of Cain, Men of Letters Bunker, One-Shot, Porn With Plot, Post-Episode: s09e21 King of the Damned, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Metatron, References to Sam Winchester, Season 9, Torturer Dean, Vessel, moc!dean, post 9.21
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 12:24:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1605062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyHarvelle/pseuds/KittyHarvelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living under the influence of the Mark of Cain means Dean no longer knows where to draw the line when it comes to getting answers.<br/>---------------------------------------------------------------------</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mark of Cain's Interrogation Tactics

The chair is sticky with blood (and God knows what else) from its last occupant, and the chains are stiff and heavy around your limbs. Warding on the walls and floor glows dimly in the darkened room. 

Hours. It's been hours since he left you in here, scared and alone. Not a word was spoken as he coldly chained you to the metal. He barely looked at you. 

You shiver. Your thin blouse wasn't meant for dungeons like this. In the poor light, you can make out a table covered with an assortment of ominous looking objects. 

The paint (oh God you hope it's paint) on the floor is still wet. The chair is tipped at a precarious angle, held in place only by the chains wrapped around you. You wish for your shoes as your naked toes try to find purchase on the sticky floor.

You miss your wings. You miss Heaven. Your vessel is lost and confused and has no information to help you cope with this. In desperation, you pray to your absent Father. He may not be able to help, but the ritual calms your racing pulse. 

Metal screeches, and a strip of light appears before you. You squint at the brightness as a silhouette appears, filling the doorway. 

"Sam thinks you're telling the truth," a deep voice growls. "But you see, that's where he and I differ. Because I don't. I think you're lying. It's nothing personal. I think everyone is lying. It's a gift." 

The strip of light vanishes as the opening slides closed, and now you hear him moving about the room. Your eyes adjust to the dimness once again. The shadow of a beautiful man crosses in front of you. 

"See, I think you know where Metatron is. I think you're going to tell me. And even if you don't, I think I'm still going to enjoy this either way." He smiles, mirthlessly. 

He circles around you, tapping an angel blade against his palm, as if trying to decide where to start. He grazes the blade across your thigh, and it burns like a brand as it cuts through your jeans. 

"Where is he!" 

"I don't know!" You blurt the words for the hundredth time. Nothing has changed. You can't produce information you don't have. 

He puts the blade against your neck, bringing his face right up against yours. "How is he moving in and out of Heaven? Where's the door?" 

He is so close you can feel the heat of his skin. He leans closer, as if he can smell the fear on you. A flick of his wrist, and he nicks your throat with the blade. You try to suppress your cry, but you can do nothing to stop the blood from welling up. It seems to intoxicate him. He drags the blade across the front of your chest, cutting through your blouse. Ignoring your cries, he rips away the reddened material. He grimly traces a new sigil in your shoulder with the tip of the blade. 

"Where. Is. He." 

Sobbing with fear, you are barely able to choke out the same answer as before. You move against the chains, frantically trying to find some escape. 

"Stay. Still." 

You freeze. His words are chilling in their calmness. Putting his hands on the armrests of the chair which imprisons you, he leans down and brings his face to yours. You feel his weight on the chair, nearly tipping you backwards. Only the chains keep you from spilling onto your skull. His eyes are bloodshot and tinged with ruthlessness. He stares at you but you are too scared to look away. "We are not done until I say we're done." The blade snakes out again, carving a fresh pattern across your collarbone. Rivulets of blood are running down your neck. For a moment he stares, enthralled by the sight.

Moving around the chair, his hands move to his waist and he begins to undo the heavy belt buckle. You hear the snap of metal against leather, and the ominous sound of the belt being slipped from its loops. Without warning, the leather cracks across your shoulder blades, just where they rise over the back of the chair. It's a cruel reminder of where your wings should be, and how helpless you now are. 

Another crack. And another. The welts are angry and red. You try to keep silent but by the fourth blow, a scream escapes your lips. He continues moving around to the front of your chair. 

"How do you communicate with Metatron. " Leather snaps in his hands. 

"I don't! I swear I don't!" It doesn't matter what you say. There is madness in his eyes. There is nothing that can turn him from this path. 

Without a belt, his pants are riding low on his hips. He is clearly aroused by the violence, his weapon straining to get free. He turns to you, grabbing a fistful of hair and yanking hard, tipping your face upwards. With a snarl he leans close to your face, drawing a deep breath and smelling the fear on your skin. He scrapes the roughened edge of his jaw against your skin, the sandpaper texture leaving red burns across your cheek, your throat. He smells of musk and oil and leather, and despite your fear you find your head swimming with the heady mixture.

"I don't believe you. And eventually you are going to break. Believe me when I say, I will do whatever it takes."

You realize that nothing you say is going to convince him. This isn't about finding answers... this is about appeasing his own demon. He needs something. He is going to hurt you. He _wants_ to hurt you. In the dim light, his eyes are red-rimmed and almost glowing with suppressed fury. 

He stares down at your chest, watching it rise and fall with your panic stricken gasps. He's very aroused. 

A warmth is spreading inside him, radiating from his arm. It sings in his head, _"This is powerful. This is here. This is what we want."_ He blinks and the rushing song fills his mind, blocking out all other thoughts.

Bending to your ear, he whispers "No more talk."

Coldly, he puts his booted foot on the edge of the chair, dragging it downwards onto all four feet and making the chains dig into your flesh. You gasp and try to squirm away from his half lidded gaze. 

The chains are completely taught, pressing hard against your breasts. Circulation is cut off and you feel your arms going numb. He reaches down and grabs one breast, pinching it hard. 

Releasing a button at his waist, then another, his pants fall open in a V. He straddles the chair, pulling your hair back and exposing your throat. Once again you feel the burn of his stubbl as he rakes his teeth against your neck. You cry out at the rough treatment. He raises himself onto the balls of his feet, still straddling your chair. "Oh, I'm just getting started." The words rumble like gravel between his teeth. 

His pants are undone now, and the full length of him strains against the seam. His hand unknots from your hair, and moves to release himself from the confinement of the denim. He strokes himself once, twice, watching you stare at him in fear. Wordlessly he reaches over your head, unhooking the chain behind your chair. The pressure against your breasts suddenly slips away and you fall forward against his rock hard muscles. 

With a single hand on your blood-slicked collarbone, he presses you down to the floor. Your torn jeans barely protect your knees from the dampness of the cement as he rubs his thickened cock against your wet lips. The salt of your tears mingles with saliva as you take the head in your mouth. You're both horrified and aroused at the size of him. The tingling in your arms tells you feeling is returning, and you raise them up, reaching towards his cock, surrounding the base with your fingers and feeling the heat of his skin warm the ache in your hands. He gives a primal snarl and hooks his palm beneath your jaw, pulling you hard towards him, forcing himself deeper between your teeth. One, two, three hard thrusts and you find yourself choking and gasping for air. Your vision starts to swim. 

Several more thrusts and he pulls back with a harsh groan. You fall forward onto the cold floor, scrambling to your knees in the dark and sucking down deep breaths. Heavy boots move around you, but you're disoriented and confused. Two large hands close around your arms, hauling you to your feet as you stumble against him on clumsy legs. His chest feels strong and firm and radiates with a heat that glows from beneath his skin. His face is both frightening and beautiful while his eyes reveal barely contained desire, hinting at the madness raging just beneath the surface. 

Weak with fear and lack of air, your legs buckle and you sink before him. Effortlessly, he hoists you into his unyielding arms and strides to the workbench full of sinister implements. You are no match for his astonishing strength as he bends you facedown over its surface. Metal clatters as various instruments are knocked to the floor. Before you can even think, he grabs the handle of a rust colored scythe and holds it to your neck. 

"Don't move." 

Drawing it downwards, he slips the hooked metal into the waistband of your jeans and, with a quick jerk, slices them clean off your body. The denim tatters fall to the floor, leaving you completely exposed and shivering in the icy air. Your nipples draw tight and hard against the cold table, in stark contrast to the waves of heat radiating from his fiery skin. 

His weight presses down on you, crushing you roughly to the surface with his hips and hands. Hot lips and teeth drag hungrily across the back of your neck, relishing the taste of your salty skin. The sweat and tears and blood only seem to arouse him more. He groans as the red light stains his arm. He is lost in the moment -- pulling, sucking, biting, grinding, tasting blood. Desire is overwhelming him, filling his head with the powerful song. His eyes close for a minute and he moans into the curve of your shoulder.

Your body is at war with your mind. The feel of his lips lights a fire in your belly and the heat is spreading to your very core. Straining against him, you crave the taste of his power. Still your brain tells you to resist. A knife lies within your reach.... do you reach for it? Stealthily your hand slips towards this pinpoint of salvation, praying for forgiveness for whatever is to come. Gasping, your fingers close around the hilt and you begin to pull it slowly towards you. 

"I said stay still." Strong fingers grabs your wrist, yanking it back until your shoulder protests. The danger in his voice is chilling. You drop the knife instantly, unable to breathe, frozen in the moment. The table is ice cold, but you don't even care. The cold is soothing the cuts on your chest and neck. His body is unyielding and undeniable and terrifying and yet so paradoxically desirable. You have no choice but to surrender to his beautiful, horrible power. 

Without releasing his vise like grip on your wrist, he snaps you around to face him and lifts you onto the table. Deftly he twists your wrist behind your back, trapping you within the great reach of his arms, pinned between fear and longing. His face is just millimeters from yours. Gone are the green eyes you first saw in daylight so many hours ago. They've been replaced with these blackened orbs, lit with a raging red fire from within. The fire is staining his skin and his expression is merciless. 

One arm continues to pin your wrist behind your back. His other arm grabs your thigh in a bruising grip, wrapping it around his hip and pulling you hard against his engorged cock. He grinds against your slit, which betrays you with its wanton wetness. A hard thrust, and he sinks deeply into the slippery damp, filling you with unexpected fire. His growl matches your own. The rhythm builds and he's pounding hard against the table. It shakes on ancient legs, metal clatters and broken bottles spill holy water across the floor.

With his fist still clutching your wrist behind your back, he drags you into his chest. You feel his breath against your hair as he groans and rakes his teeth across your skin. He revels in this feast of flesh and blood. He pounds harder, feeling himself grow stronger. The heat that began in his arm stretches into his chest, into his thoughts. It is driving him forward relentlessly, drawing unholy pleasure in this, craving more and more. He pulls his mouth back from your throat, your blood staining his lips. With each thrust the song in his head plays louder, tuning out the sounds of the bunker, the sounds of the metal clattering to the floor, the sounds of your cries. He doesn't care if your screams are from pleasure or fear. Either way, it is power to him.

The tightening begins low in his belly. He gasps in air and clutches hard at your limbs, relishing the wounds and bruises he has left. The fire within him spreads as he hears the smack of skin against skin, delving impossibly deeper, crushing you to him. The power builds until his own body can't contain it. Red light seeps from him, bursting like blood vessels through his skin. He reaches for something, anything as he shouts out. The energy spills from him in his climax, driving him powerfully into the creature before him. He explodes with light and heat and grabs desperately at your body as a drowning man clutches at his savior. His own climax fills you with such warmth that you also find yourself spilling over the cascade, pulsing with the terrible light of a dying star and slowly fading into darkness. 

The light fades from his skin and the only sound left in the room is his harsh breathing and the soft sound of your own cries.

\----

The room is spinning. Dean blinks, trying to remember where he is. He felt such fury inside him, such a need for violence and mindless rage... but it's like waking from a dream. He feels... sated, in a way... like the fire inside him has been well fed and is now reduced to a smoldering ember, just waiting to flare again.

He looks at the carnage of the girl before him, at her reddened eyes, purple bruises and the myriad of cuts across her skin. He recognizes his work, and horror begins to dawn in him. 

He steps back, dropping his arms to his sides. What is there to say? "You need to get away from me." 

Confused, you drop from the table. Is this a trick? He looks so broken. You reach tentatively towards him. "Get away from me NOW," he snarls. With a frightened squeak you snatch up the tattered remains of your clothes and flee. In the doorway, you turn to look back. He no longer even sees you, so engulfed in his own turmoil. 

As you watch unseen, he moves to pick up the chair, righting it. He turns to the empty room. 

His voice is low, and barely audible. "Sammy, you were right. I can't control it anymore." 

He is speaking to the air. The look in his eyes is haunted and he hangs his head in shame, defeated.


End file.
